


Ticking Clocks

by Bayyvon



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Age Difference AU, College AU, M/M, Professor!Daveed, Student!Rafa, teacher/student au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 23:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21364501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bayyvon/pseuds/Bayyvon
Summary: In which the student watches the clock, and the professor watches him.
Relationships: Daveed Diggs/Rafael Casal
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Ticking Clocks

Rafael curses, checking his watch as he runs across the sunlit tree dotted campus, approaching the weather worn brick building. He dashes in through the swinging doors of the cafeteria, bee-lining for the elevator. He glances down at his watch again, calculating the time it would take to make it up three floors, and through the maze of hallways that made up the Anderson Arts Building to make it to his first day of Creative Writing 215 with—_ who?_

The blond begrudgingly fishes around for his crumpled schedule, when the elevator dings and he finds himself smashing directly into a slim, tan man in a grey and black ensemble. The dark haired man’s papers scatter from his hands, and Rafa begins to apologize profusely. 

To which the man laughs, a hint of amusement dancing across his features as he joins the art student in collecting the mismatched papers. “Don’t sweat it. Wouldn’t be the first day without a mishap, now would it, Mr. Casal?”

Rafa stares. Owlish. Brows drawing down to match the confusion blooming through his chest. “How’d you—“

“I saw you at last year’s spoken word exhibit in the Parkson wing. You did a piece on gun violence in your hometown. I look forward to seeing you in my Introduction to Screenwriting class. Seems like you have a lot to say.” The professor grins, wide and toothy and proud, as the twenty year old stands, handing him back what he realizes are detailed lesson plans. Signed L. Miranda. 

_Jesus kickflipping Christ, he just ran down his fucking teacher._

The Oakland native checks his watch again and sighs, resigning himself to being late as he boards the elevator and checks his phone. A text from his mom, wishing him luck. A Youtube notification that someone had commented on one of his recent poems. He opens Twitter and, ears burning in mortification, sends out: _Just knocked down my goddamn teacher. Happy first day to me._

Anthony, the soft spoken boy who lives down the hall likes the tweet. 

Rafael makes it to Kerrington Hall five minutes late. And finds the door to Creative Writing after another three minutes. He was nearly ten minutes late. On his first fucking day. 

“Rafael Casal, I assume?” Says the tall, dark skinned man who stands before a whiteboard in a soft blue button up and monochromatic patterned slacks. 

“Yeah,” Rafa rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment and finds an open seat. 

“As I was saying,” The man smiles, and Rafa finds himself burning beneath his gaze. “This class focuses on using heightened language to get across a larger point in a way that is easily digestible...” He pauses, scanning the faces of the students that fill the room. “Do any of you have any experience using heightened language?”

Rafael shoots his hand into the air without much thought. Only when he realizes he’s one of four does he reconsider his eager admittance. 

The instructor — _Daveed Diggs_ says the board behind his head — nods to the girl (_“Renee. I’m a theater major.”)_ in the far left corner who stands unbearably straight (Rafa wonders fleetingly if it hurts her to stand so stiffly) and recites what he’s pretty sure is a monologue from Shakespear’s Caesar. Daveed looks mildly amused, and claps three times before moving on to the boy who sits near the back. When it finally rolls around to Rafael, he takes note that no one had used anything contemporary. It had all been in dense, old world language. Not unpleasant, just. Not his style. 

He clears his throat, and glances around. “Rafael. I, uh. I write poetry. Some theater stuff. A little rap. Some’a y’all mighta heard me do this one last year at the slam.”

_“I think I might be a monster.”_

Titters of laughter meet his ears and he wants to clamp his mouth shut. Forges on, because he sees the way Mr. Diggs leans forward, suddenly unreadable in his observations. 

_“I know that might sound a little crazy, but,_

_I think I might be a monster_

_In my black suit, black shoes_

_Standin’ over this black box_

_Lookin’ at you,”_

Sees the way the professors eyebrows shoot up. He blinks twice, and his hand curls tightly around the lip of the desk.

“_I think this might’a made me a monster._

_Women tell us that we look **handsome**_

_At funerals dressed in our black. _

_Almost look too good in what we’ll be buried in.”_

A girl hums, and someone else snaps. The blond feels himself sag with relief. 

Rafa makes his way through the rest of the poem, hands waving to throw more weight behind his deliveries as he feels the emotion well in his chest until the class bursts into uproarious applause. He cracks a grin, rubbing the back of his neck. He sits back down, and watches as Daveed quickly jots something down on a pad of sticky notes and shoves the top sheet into his pocket. 

After the hour is up and he’s gotten his syllabus and first assignment, he gathers his books and is ready to leave when he’s called back. 

“Rafael.”

He turns his head to find Mr. Diggs peering at him over the rim of his round wire frame glasses.

“You’re from The Bay, right?”

“Uh,” Rafa feels a sense of dejavu wash over him as he says “Yeah, why?”

“Your hoodie. Says Berkeley.” Daveed grins. “I grew up there too.”

Rafa finds himself smiling back, adjusting his bag strap across his chest. 

“I was really impressed with your piece.” Daveed speaks with his hands, using one to wave and one to catch himself on the lip of the desk when an embarrassed pink flares across Rafael’s high cheeks. “I thought you might be interested in this.” He forks over the sky blue post it note folded over to conceal its contents. He watches the way the blond’s hands twitch, fighting to keep still. 

_ [DDDiggs@LangstonBruce.edu](mailto:DDDiggs@LangstonBruce.edu) _

_“I Feel Like” - Daveed Diggs/soundcloud_

_Let me know what you think. _

“You write music,” Rafa feels himself gape incredulously. 

“Get back to me.” Daveed turns away to gather his things and head to another classroom and Rafa swears he sees the professor smirk over the rim of his glasses as the twenty year old exits the room almost desperately, tension so thick he thinks he’d need fuckin’ superstrength to even begin to cut through it. 

The rest of the day is uneventful, and Rafael had nearly forgotten about the fire that Professor Diggs had sparked and left smoldering in his chest, until he sits comfortably in his dorm and finds the pale blue sticky note stuck to the screen of his laptop. _Just. Look. Kill the fuckin' curiosity and let it go._

Turns out, that was the hard part. Once Rafael had soaked in every last bar, he feels almost awestruck as he sends his first email. 

_To: [DDDiggs@LangstonBruce.edu](mailto:DDDiggs@LangstonBruce.edu)_

_Subject: “I Feel Like”_

_Professor Diggs,_

_Excuse my language, dude, but **holy shit.** That was absolutely incredible. Is there more? _

He doesn’t receive a response. 


End file.
